


Shield's Bane

by BiteMeMarvelCanon



Category: Agent Carter (TV), Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-15
Updated: 2017-12-03
Packaged: 2019-01-17 14:07:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12367350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BiteMeMarvelCanon/pseuds/BiteMeMarvelCanon
Summary: Peggy Carter and Steve Rogers get another chance to be together. But first they have to save the world. Again.Can’t wait for the possible reunion of Steve and Peggy inInfinity War? Want to see Peggy knock some heads together on a modern adventure? Want to read flashbacks that fill in more of Peggy's story through the years? Looking for a story that combines Norse myth, Tony Stark, a doomsday weapon, and anchovies? Look no further!Canon compliant throughCivil WarandAgent CarterSeason 2.





	1. Chapter 1

_Two weeks after the events of Civil War_

Steve waited alone in the dark. He stood just out of sight of the dirt road in the forest, behind a thick growth of evergreen trees that he hoped would conceal his presence long enough for him to react if this turned out to be a trap. He wasn’t sure what exactly he would do if it was a trap; he had no shield, no weapon of any kind.

In the faint cloudy moonlight, he could just see the puffs of steam created by his breath. He watched them one by one as they vanished and wondered for the hundredth time if this was a mistake. That was about all the entertainment to be had. He had no coms and no backup: those had been the conditions of the meet as relayed to him by Sam. 

Steve trusted Sam. Sam trusted Scott Lang. Scott trusted Hank Pym. And Hank Pym supposedly absolutely trusted this contact. Steve hoped that every link in this chain held true, or he was in trouble.

He didn’t even know what, precisely, the meeting was about, only that it was urgent and it had to be him personally. He wondered if he would have ever agreed to such a meeting even a few weeks ago. Probably not.

But everything was different now. The Avengers were scattered. He was a wanted criminal. And Peggy…was gone. After seeing Bucky go back into stasis in Wakanda, he had made his way up through Africa and the Middle East, heading for Eastern Europe, where he would be less conspicuous. He had darkened his hair a shade and started to grow a beard. He could no longer rely on a simple baseball cap to be enough of a disguise. He was still in contact with the rest of the former Avengers, now his co-conspirators, but it was too dangerous for them to be in the same place right now. The truth was, he had nothing much to do at the moment, except for reflecting on all that he had lost. And he had already spent what felt like a lifetime doing that.

He heard the sound of a motor in the distance, quiet but distinct. He focused on the sound; it was definitely getting louder. Eventually, a nondescript black sedan pulled up. It was a boxy, older model car. He couldn't see the driver. He steeled himself for...something.

The car pulled to a stop slightly past him. The driver got out and walked around the back of the car to where he was standing. The dark figure wore a coat and hat, and he couldn't see their face. But they were alone, apparently unarmed, and not particularly physically imposing. A slight frame, and only about five and a half feet tall, not much taller than he had once been. 

Suddenly and without warning, the figure took a step closer to him and reached a hand up toward him. With his quick reflexes, he caught their arm just as the moon emerged from behind a cloud to reveal the face of...

…Peggy Carter looking up at him, as young as she was in 1945. He released her arm, shocked. She dropped her arm, having reconsidered whatever gesture she had been about to make. She turned briskly on her heel and walked around him, opening the driver's side door and settling back down at the wheel. "Get in,” she said simply, looking back at him. “We don't have much time,” she explained, grateful that she managed to keep her voice from breaking. 

He didn’t hesitate. If it wasn’t her, then he was going to find out who was pretending to be her, and why, and make them pay for it. 

If it really was her, as impossible as that seemed, he would follow her to the ends of the earth. Either way, the only thing to do was to get in the car.

"How?" Was all he was able to get out as she started driving.

"How does any of this kind of thing happen around here? Vial of magical serum," she answered matter-of-factly, her tone light. She gripped the steering wheel more tightly, hoping it would mask her hands shaking.

"Why?"

“The powers that be seemed to think that I was essential to the mission. Essential enough to fake my death and use the serum."

"How can I be sure you're really Peggy Carter?”

“How can I be sure you’re really Steve Rogers?” she shot back. His stomach actually flipped at the sound of her saying his name. After a long pause, she added, in a more conciliatory tone, “If you want to be sure it’s me, you can ask me anything you'd like.”

"There's nothing that I could ask you that someone couldn't have found out some other way."

"You're quite right. I'm glad to see you've become more suspicious than you were the last time we worked together. Perhaps it's Ms. Romanov's influence.”

“There's nothing that passed between us that couldn't have been overheard or that someone might not have talked about in the intervening 70 years,” she continued, as she turned onto a gravel road from the dirt one, which she supposed was an improvement, although it was unpleasant to ride and drive on. “There was a driver in the car when we spoke on the way to get Erskine's serum. Barnes was there when I saw you that night in the pub in my red dress. Our last conversation was recorded, although it was classified. Even the times when we were alone, like when I found you trying, unsuccessfully, to get drunk, aren't foolproof. The real Peggy Carter could have mentioned that to someone sometime, and I could be using that information. But,” she continued with a slight shrug, ”I am the real Peggy Carter. So you'll just have to trust me, unless…”

“Unless what?” 

She stopped the car in the middle of the still-deserted road, put it in park, and turned to him, her dark eyes black in the faint moonlight. Phillips may have seen us kiss right before you got on the Valkyrie, but you and I are the only people who remember what it felt like.” She leaned a little closer. “I remember what you tasted like,” she said, her voice low. “I’ve never forgotten. Have you?”

"No," he answered. "I couldn't forget it even if I had wanted to,” he said quietly, almost to himself.

She kissed him, a soft, sweet, perfect kiss, just like the one she had given him before. 

Her lips drew gently away from his but stopped inches from his face, so close that he could still feel the heat of her breath. “Are you convinced, darling?” she asked.

It was Peggy; he had no doubts. He nodded.

“Good,” she answered, as she moved away from him and settled back into her seat. She put the car back in gear and pressed on the gas. “Your memory's not too bad for an old man, then."

His only answer was a faint smile. Peggy let the silence be as well. They both listened to the low hum of the engine as the car carried them further into the night.


	2. Chapter 2

_Shortly before the events of_ Civil War

Fury shifted in his chair. The office was sleek and modern, all mirror-like glass and polished metal. Not that he minded the spare furnishings; it was that much easier to check for bugs. Not that he was paranoid; as they said, it wasn’t paranoia if people really were out to get you. He glanced out the window at the New York countryside. It wasn’t nearly as good as the view he had had of the Potomac at the Triskelion. And it was too green here.

There was a brief knock at the door, then Maria Hill entered without waiting for an invitation. She carried an old-fashioned paper file in her hand. That was always a bad sign: something so sensitive that any electronic footprint was minimized. “You want the good news or the bad news, boss?” she asked. 

“Is there any good news?”

“Yes, the new coffee maker arrived. That’s the good news.”

“But?”

“But Tony doesn’t want anyone to use it. Something about coffee grounds in the sink again. And then there’s this,” she added, handing him the file.

“The bad news,” Fury observed as Hill nodded and he took the file.

She waited as he put the file in the center of his desk. He opened it to see an Omega-2 level alert. That meant intelligence on an potential assassination attempt on someone of high importance. Not the highest level, but still someone who knew a lot. It was probably him; it usually was.

It was from a listening post in Sokovia, of all places. Part of it that was still intact. A reliable source that had provided valuable information in the past. The threat was real even if the reason was still vague. He read further down the file, expecting to see his name as the target. But the name he saw there surprised him. 

“Hill, I need to get to San Francisco immediately. Make the arrangements.”

“Yes sir,” she replied crisply. He liked Hill. She always seemed to know when to push him and when to let things drop. Which was most of the time.

****

Fury parked his black SUV right in front of the house. He had bigger worries than parking tickets. 

He stood on the porch, looking up at the security camera that he knew was there, even though he could see no evidence of it.

“Dr. Pym,” his voice boomed.

“Leave the bag on the porch. There’s a tip in the envelope under the mat,” Pym's voice replied from a hidden speaker. 

“It’s Nick Fury, and I’m not here to deliver your food.”

“Well, in that case, you can just leave. And no tip.”

“Dr. Pym, I don’t have time for this today, or any day, and I’m not going anywhere until you speak with me.”

The door opened on its own. Fury made his way through the house to Pym’s lab. He wished he didn’t already know the way, the result of a number of other visits over the years.

Fury found Pym in his lab absorbed in an experiment. He barely glanced at Fury as he entered and then turned away from him, continuing to work. “I’m not interested in whatever it is you want me to do. I wasn’t interested 20 years ago when you asked,” he continued, placing a drop of a blue fluid onto slide and, 10 years ago, placing the slide under the microscope, “five years ago,” examining it carefully through the eye piece, “a year ago,” turning from the microscope to a lab notebook and making a notation, “or last Tuesday,” he finished, finally setting down his pencil and turning to look Fury in the eye. “I don’t want anything to do with SHIELD.”

“This isn’t about SHIELD. It’s about Peggy Carter.”

“What about her?” Pym asked evenly, although Fury could tell his interest had been piqued.

“Are you in?” Fury countered. “This is highly classified.” 

“You know me well enough by now to know that I won’t commit to anything in advance. If it’s really about Peggy, and not SHIELD, then I’ll give it serious consideration. That has to be enough for you.”

Fury held in a sigh. He was not going to give Pym the satisfaction of making him sigh. Would there ever come a day when he asked someone to do something, and they simply said, “Ok, I’m in”? He supposed there wouldn’t.

“I suppose I don’t need to ask you if this room is secure?”

“More secure than SHIELD, or what’s left of it.” 

Fury ignored the dig and got on with it. “We’ve received reliable intelligence that Peggy Carter’s life is in danger. We don’t know who wants her dead, only that it has to do with some information she supposedly has that these parties don’t want to get out. She’s…not doing well, as you know. That’s enough of a reason for us to keep her alive, if it weren’t also the right thing to do, if SHIELD didn’t owe her that.”

“What can I do about that?”

“We also think she might have some kind of vital information. Well, this information, whatever it is, if it’s that valuable, we need to get access to it.”

“Again, what do you think I can do about it?”

“There are rumors that before you left SHIELD one of the lines of research you worked on involved cognitive enhancement, repair at the cellular level. There are rumors that you continued that research on your own. I’m here to find out if you have some way to help her.”

Fury’s information was good, as usual, but even he couldn’t imagine how far Pym had taken that line of research.

Now it was Hank’s turn to hold back a sigh. This was the opportunity he had been waiting for, but he had to know something first if he was going to play God. “Sit down,” he said, waving Fury into the next room, Hank’s private study. He followed Fury in, gestured towards one of the leather chairs. “Do you want a drink?”, he asked Fury, indicating a crystal decanter on the side table.

Fury did pour himself a drink. His job was an endless series of problems to solve; he might as well enjoy any little moments of pleasure. He was genuinely curious what had caused Pym’s sudden change from uncooperative to interested, but he of course didn’t show it. His gruff manner remained unchanged.

“How often does he see her?” Pym asked, sitting down opposite Fury

“Who?” Fury asked, while knowing exactly who he meant.

“You know who I mean.”

“I don’t see how that’s relevant,” he answered, not concerned with revealing the information, but wanting to prolong the interaction so he had more time to observe Pym’s manner and discern his motives.

“I don’t care if you see how it’s relevant. You’re the one who’s here asking me for a favor.”

The edge in Pym’s voice told Fury that he had pushed it as far as he could. “About every other day when he’s in town. I think he’d go every day but he thinks it’s too hard on her.”

So this was his chance. The irony of it. Fury was here asking him to do it as a favor, when he had long been considering how he could contrive to do it on his own. Once he had set to working on the formula again, he had thought of Peggy often.

“I’d need to see her first, of course, and I’d need to get her consent if she’s capable.”

“Of course,” not reacting to the fact that Pym had basically agreed to do it. “How long do you need?”

“I can fly out tonight.” 

Fury finished his drink. “I’ll have Hill contact you to make the arrangements. I’ll meet you in New York tomorrow. And I’ll see myself out,” he added, standing.

Pym just nodded, watching Fury leave. 

Peggy’s dementia had come on suddenly, and something about it had never sat right with Hank. He had always thought it was the most cruel irony, that even Peggy’s sad reunion with Captain Rogers was incomplete due to her dementia. Now he had begun to wonder if it was an irony, or a plan.

* * *

_A few hours after Peggy and Steve were reunited_

Peggy smoothed her platinum blonde hair, and adjusted the black woolen hat to an angle as she signaled her contact from the dock. It was after two in the morning, cold and foggy. 

Looking from side to side constantly as he led her through the lower corridors of the ship, her contact was a nervous little man whom she didn’t entirely trust. She noticed that his left arm was a good inch or two shorter than his right, probably the result of a break that was not set properly. From the smell of his breath and the bulge of his jacket pocket, she surmised that he smoked Galoises. 

Before she had the chance for any further observations, they arrived at the cargo hold where Peggy had agreed to be smuggled as a stowaway among crate after crate of fish. The man looked from side to side again, presumably waiting for the first half of his payment.

She reached into her coat pocket for an envelope. She made sure that her coat and shirt sleeve had ridden up so that he saw the tattoo on her wrist as she handed him the envelope. She watched as it caught his eye, then paused for a moment, and then hurriedly pulled her sleeve down. If he did give a description of her to anyone, he would be sure to include the detail of the tattoo, which would be long gone by then.

She stood in silence as he counted the money. After what seemed like a long time, he looked up and nodded. 

“The other half will be transferred to your account on my safe arrival,” she reminded him. He again answered only with a nod and disappeared out the door, closing it behind him. 

She waited at the door until she heard him walk down the corridor and leave. “He’s gone,” she said quietly to the cargo hold.

On cue, Steve emerged from behind a crate.

“No cameras?” she asked.

“Nothing that I could find. It’s clean.”

“Good. I can’t wait to get out of this. It’s itchy,” she said, as she removed the wig and hat and combed her fingers through her dark hair.

Steve stared at her, and she found to her discomfort that she couldn’t read his expression. She had spent most of the car ride filling him in on how she had been brought back. He had said little, his face strangely blank.

“How are you feeling?,” she asked, stepping closer to him and looking him over discreetly. The light in the cargo hold wasn’t very bright, but it offered much more illumination than the car had. She might not be able to tell what he was thinking, but she could certainly see that he was in rather rough shape physically.

She reached up and touched his cheek. “You look exhausted. How long has it been since you’ve slept more than a few hours, or eaten properly?”

He leaned down slightly, covering her hand with his own and pressing it into his cheek. He closed his eyes and whispered, “Don’t know.”

He hadn’t had a full night’s sleep since her funeral, and meals had also been hit or miss. Even when he was in Wakanda, he had tossed and turned, unable to sleep more than a few hours. And he hadn’t had much of an appetite then either.

It was strange to have someone treat him like this. People generally never noticed when he was tired, thinking he was indestructible. 

But Peggy had always noticed. 

She had always known when he was pushing himself to his limits, even before he realized it himself. He opened his eyes to see her looking at him, her expression full of love and concern. It seemed like a lifetime since anyone had looked at him like that.

But he still didn’t say anything. Not knowing quite what to say to him, Peggy took a step away, but reached for his hand and led him through a maze of larger crates to where her contact had set up a makeshift camp for her. She gestured to the mattress on the floor, a lantern, and some food and water. “This is home, sweet, home for the next few days, darling. I hope you enjoy the smell of anchovies.”

Peggy lay down on the mattress, the emotional toll of the last few hours starting to hit her. “I hope you won’t be making a fuss, trying to sleep separately. It’s cold in here, and you're warm,” she joked, trying to cover her own uncertainty about him.

To her surprise, Steve moved toward her without hesitation while she was still speaking. He lay down next to her immediately, holding her close, and buried his face in her neck. “Is it really you, Peggy?”

“Yes, it’s really, truly me.”

“Because I want to believe it, but I couldn’t take it if I lost you again.”

“I know. I couldn’t either.”

Her shoulder felt hot and damp. Although he hadn’t moved, hadn’t revealed it in his voice, he was silently crying into her neck. She had no sooner realized that he was crying than she became aware of the fact that she was too, hot tears rolling one after another down the sides of her face. She turned her head towards his.

“I carried your coffin, Peggy,” he said, shuddering against her with a sob.

“I know, darling. I’m so sorry,” she said, stroking the back of his neck. “I would have done it another way, but they thought it was best to fake my death, and I had no choice in the matter at the time,” she explained. They were both quiet for a little while. “I went to your funeral too,” she added softly after a while.

They stayed like that for a long time, pressed together, breathing each other in, each only needing to know that the other was real, and nothing else.

After a while, Steve whispered, “I know that what you said is right, that there’s nothing that happened between us that couldn't have been overheard, but tell me anyway. Tell me something you remember about…us.”

“Something I remember. Let's see…Do you remember the first time you and I spoke together, one on one? It was at Camp Lehigh, shortly after you’d begun basic training…” 

It was a very mild June night, not too hot or humid. The kind of summer weather that made you want to spend as much time as possible outside. Steve could even hear crickets, or some kind of insect. Growing up in the city, it was a luxury to be out where there were trees and grass everywhere. 

But he wasn’t outside, enjoying the weather. He was in the mess hall trying to read a book on military strategy. He had gone over the last sentence three times, so tired that he couldn’t concentrate. But he had to do everything he could to give himself an edge. He certainly didn’t have one physically, so he had to try for a mental advantage.

At least it was quiet in here. He was alone, which gave him at least the opportunity to concentrate if not the necessary energy. 

He turned the page of his book and stopped reading for a moment to rub his eyes. He was tired. He took another sip of coffee. He was debating whether to give in and call it a night when he heard someone enter behind him. 

“Agent Carter,” he said, jumping to his feet

“At ease, Private,” she said as she walked over to the counter towards the coffee. 

He relaxed his stance a little, but she wouldn't have called the way he looked at ease. 

“It's Rogers, isn't it?” she asked, although she knew his name and could have recited his file to him, as she could for any of the new recruits.

Of course, she would have known about him even if she weren’t exceptionally thorough at her job. Five four, 90 pounds soaking wet, and with a list of medical problems as long as her arm. Phillips hadn’t even wanted to admit him to the program, but Erskine had insisted. To be honest, she thought Phillips had a point. Although she understood, like Erskine, that they had to look at qualities beyond the physical, she wasn’t sure that this young man could survive basic training, let alone the procedure if he were selected for it.

“I would have expected you to go to the officers’ mess, ma’am,” he said as she poured herself a cup of coffee. 

She nodded in acknowledgement, then turned and leaned against the counter, arms crossed in front of her, one hand bringing the cup up to her perfectly defined lips. “The coffee in here is always much better. I suspect the cooks of harboring anti-elitist sentiments.”

The coffee was indeed better here, but that wasn’t why she was there. In truth, she avoided the officers’ mess whenever possible. Among the enlisted men, she didn’t belong because she was an officer. But among the officers, she didn’t belong because she was a woman. She preferred being uncomfortable for the latter reason rather than the former.

“I think it's probably just because there are so many more enlisted men than officers, so the coffee is finished off and then made fresh more often.”

“Yes, quite so,” she answered absently. He was quite sharp, this one. She considered him for a moment. Perhaps she had underestimated him?

“I would have thought you’d be exhausted after a day of training like you had, but you still have the energy to read,” she observed.

“Well, not really, ma’am. I mean, I am tired. I came for the coffee too,” he said, gesturing at his cup. 

She had filled her coffee cup, and could have left, ending the encounter. But even though she hadn’t been looking for company, she sat down a few seats away from him at the long table. He watched her silently. Once she was seated, he sat down as well.

“So do you come here often?” he asked. The words were out of his mouth before he realized that it sounded like a pick-up line. “I mean,” he stuttered, “Do you drink a lot of coffee?” he asked, lifting his own cup and taking a gulp. He peered at her from above the cup, hoping to hide his embarrassment. 

If she had noticed his awkward phrasing, she didn't give any sign of it, except for a small smile. “I do probably drink too much coffee. Howard claims it makes me irritable.”

Steve nodded in reply. Howard must be her fella. Of course she was taken. Not that it mattered. She was his superior, and way out of his league anyway. Three strikes and he was out. Not that any woman had ever given him a second look anyway.

“I don’t mean to interrupt your reading,” she finally said.

“Oh, that’s ok. I could use a break. I just read the same sentence three times.”

“It must have been a very interesting sentence,” she said dryly.

Just the barest hint of a smile showed on his lips. He wasn’t sure if she was joking.

“So where’s do you hail from, private?” she asked, another question she knew the answer to, but it seemed like a reasonable topic for small talk.

“Brooklyn.”

“It must be nice for you to be close to family.”

“More or less,” he said with a shrug. He should have just agreed, made a polite response to what was obviously just a . But something was compelling him to talk more rather than less.

“So which is it?”

“Which is what?”

“Is it more or less?”

“Oh, right. I —-uh…it’s just that I don’t really have any family here, ma’am. My folks are deceased. My best friend’s in the service. Don’t have a girl, so…I’m on my own, wherever I am.”

“I see, private,” Aren’t we all, she added silently to herself.

“Yes ma’am. Are you—do you find it difficult, being so far from home?”

She stared at him, looking as if the question had caught her off guard. Maybe he was out of line, asking that. “Excuse me, ma’am. I didn’t mean to—-that is, I was just…” Why was he so tongue-tied around her?

“It’s quite all right, private. It’s just—I was just realizing that no one’s ever asked me that. Not the whole time I’ve been here…” she paused. “It _is_ difficult, being away from everything familiar. But I’ve got a job to do; we all do. And that’s what’s important right now.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“You know, you don’t have to say ‘ma’am’ at the end of every sentence, at least not when we’re speaking privately.” 

Steve was puzzled. Was it likely that they’d ever be speaking privately again?

“Yes, ma’am,” he said automatically, and then smiled and blushed. She smiled as well.

“Well, I suppose I should leave you to your reading. Mind you, don’t stay up too late; we have another long day tomorrow.” The next day was the famous run to the flagpole. And the recruits would certainly all be running back; they always did.

She stood, and he got immediately to his feet. “Good night, Private,” she said, as she turned and headed out of the mess hall.

“Good night,” he responded. He wouldn’t stay up too late, he told himself, but he suddenly felt more energetic. It must be the coffee kicking in. Maybe he would be able to finish this chapter after all.

Peggy was thoughtful as she walked back to Philips’ office in the warm evening air. She couldn’t say what Erskine had seen in this young man, but there was something different about him, something she couldn’t quite put her finger on. 

She hadn’t missed the fact that had taken her up on her offer and had not said “ma’am” when he said good night. She didn’t know what had come over her, letting someone take liberties like that; usually she clawed for every scrap of respect she could get. She felt unusually at ease around him for some reason; she’d have to watch herself.

“…And that’s how I remember it. Did I leave anything out, darling?”

She had finished reminiscing. She noticed that Steve was unusually quiet. She paused for a moment and listened to his breathing. It was slow and even. He had fallen asleep listening to her, lying half top of her, his arm around her waist, and his head still on her shoulder. She held very still, not wanting to wake him. 

She decided she’d try to fall asleep as well. It wasn’t the most uncomfortable position she’d fallen asleep in by a long shot. And the company was the best she’d had in a long, long time.


End file.
